Aere Perennius
by katherinerae
Summary: The Battle of Hogwarts ended in a loss. When separated from her friends, a city that once was home becomes a cage as Hermione struggles to survive. But when her identity is revealed, her only choice is to trust a man who might be as broken as she is. Their story is one more lasting than bronze. Dramione.
1. Chapter 1: Berceuse

_**Aere Perennius**_

**Summary: **The Battle of Hogwarts ended in a loss. When separated from her friends, a city that once was home becomes a cage as Hermione struggles to survive. But when her identity is revealed, her only choice is to trust a man who might be as broken as she is. Their story is one more lasting than bronze. Dramione.

**Disclaimer: **If I have to explain that I didn't make up this world or most of these characters, then I don't know what to tell you.

* * *

She was wrong.

_Existence is random. It has no pattern save what we imagine after staring at it for too long._

She had quoted it once when reading from a contemporary Muggle book. He had wryly agreed then. He had always believed that their meeting that night in the alley was a coincidence, if a benevolent one. There was no way they should have met, the random events preceding all of it having been shuffled in exactly the right way.

But she was wrong. Staring at the wand pointed directly at the center of his face, he knew in his bones that she was wrong. Every moment that led up to their meeting had been perfectly orchestrated. Every argument, every cruel remark, every nudge toward war, even the war itself; they all allowed him to spend the best moments of his life with her. It shouldn't have happened. And yet, it had.

There _was _a pattern and a meaning to existence. For him, the pattern was a kiss on the cheek, a cup of tea, a sweet lingering touch, a glance full of too many emotions. The meaning was her.

The wand shook angrily between his eyes. He should be panicked, full of fear for this act and its consequences, for himself and his destiny. He would join the many others who had died for this cause. He would finally be at peace, having given penance for his sins at last. And maybe he'd been a coward before, but not now. Not in _this_ moment. And it was because of her.

"You had so much potential, Draco," the wizard holding the wand hissed at him. "I expected better from you."

And he knew that she was still wrong. It was always going to end this way. He had known it from before he even laid eyes on her true face. It was always going to be him, in this moment, choosing her. Choosing the Light.

"Born from ashes," he murmured. There was no one to finish his sentence, no one whom would dare speak the words, but the unspoken _Rise in fire_ seemed to echo in the large room, settling heavily on the others like a moral weight.

The spell was uttered and he fell back, feeling shockingly numb considering the pain that curse was intended to inflict.

The ceiling was rather magnificent, he thought absently. Now he knew why she was fascinated with Muggle artists. Art was meaningful because the artist could be snuffed out at any moment.

_You always_ were _the brightest witch of our age. _The last words he ever spoke to her. He couldn't even remember what her response was. The edges of his vision grew blurry and he heard loud shouting, but it sounded as though they were speaking through water.

_Existence is random. It has no pattern save what we imagine after staring at it for too long._

He wished he could look at her one last time, tell her she was wrong with a small smile, but knew he didn't deserve to see her. He could only hope she could forgive him when they were reunited one day.

_The most sublime act is to set another before you._

Now in that, she had been right.

* * *

**Welcome back everyone! I've missed you all very dearly these past couple of months. A lot of my time now is dedicated to trying out some new ideas, and here is the first chapter of one of those :)**

**Don't forget to follow, favorite, and review!**

**Kat **


	2. Chapter 2: Atonality

**Chapter 2: Atonality **

* * *

**1999**

"I don't want you to go."

"God, Hermione, I _know_, but I can't-I have to-"

"No, you don't get to just walk away from this, Harry. You don't get to run away and hide."

"Why not? I've given everything, _everything_, Hermione. I've sacrificed my friends, my parents, Sirius-"

"You don't need to remind me of all the people you've lost. I've lost people too."

A sigh. "You're right, I'm sorry. I'm just-"

"Overwhelmed." A delicate hand, reaching out for a calloused one. Both scarred.

"Understatement." A pause. Then weakly, desperately, "What do we do?"

"We fight. Because it's who we are. You're the Chosen One, Harry Potter."

"But you were always the Wise One. The Smart One. And I think the world just might need you more than it needs me."

"I can't speak for the world, but I need you. You can find our friends, finally bring an end to this fucking war-" a choked off sentence. A breath. "And pay You-Know-Who back for all these years on the run."

Silence for a beat. And then, seriously, "I don't know what I'd do without you, Hermione."

Hands brushing fabric, soft breaths in an embrace. An anchor in the waves of terror. To rest before they were required to run.

But they wouldn't run away. This was running forward, toward whatever awaited them on the other side. With Merlin's blessing, perhaps their friends. Their loved ones. A world restored. But for now, the burden could be put down. Or at the very least, she could bear some of its crushing weight for him. The press of his hands into her back echoed his gratitude.

"Born from ashes," she murmured.

"Rise in fire," he replied.

Separated with a smile. Wand pulled from her pocket. A silent question of _Ready?_ and an answer of _Are we ever?_ and then a crack of disapparation.

Then the night was silent, only the dying campfire popping as the embers crackled, glowing bright one last time before blinking out, one by one, leaving only cinders.

* * *

**2001**

The fire crackled in the hearth, dancing with shapes as several extremely inebriated men spelled the flames in amusement. Their joyful guffaws turned heads of patrons, but only for a second before the bottoms of their glasses called to them again.

Hermione scanned the evening crowd, as she did every night. The Leaky Cauldron had been unusually popular in the last week. _Probably something to do with the roundups._

More Snatchers than usual, too. That made her antsy, but she reached up and poured the man at the counter a drink as though her last care in the world was her blood status. She could feel his leering eyes on her behind as she turned away for another glass, but she ignored it and plunked his glass down in front of him.

"There you are," she said brusquely, before reaching under the bar for a towel. She felt his eyes follow her, and heard him drag the glass over the wood surface before lifting it to his mouth.

"How atrociously plebeian," he remarked, his voice low and gruff, almost a growl. It made Hermione's hair stand up.

"If you mean the bar, I'll be happy to take your money now and you can complain to the rats in the alley outside," Hermione replied shortly, running the towel over the countertop to rid it of the spilled alcohol from overly enthusiastic patrons.

She could feel his smile before she saw it, and when she did, it was one of the ugliest smiles she had ever witnessed. His teeth were rotted, his gums black, his lips cracked and scabbed over. But it was the amusement in his dark gaze that scared her the most, and Hermione Granger was not easily frightened.

"So she speaks _and_ pours premium," he said, his eyes never leaving hers as he brought his glass up for another sip. "Anything else she can do?"

"Nothing you get the privilege of seeing," Hermione said coldly, feeling her hackles raise at the man's attention. It wasn't that she hadn't had patrons hit on her before, but she had a deep gut-feeling that this man wasn't sitting at her bar to get drunk and hit on the bartender.

He laughed, draining his glass before placing it in front of him, sliding it toward her like a challenge. His twisted smile made Hermione very aware of the wand in her pocket, the forged papers in her jacket, and the back door several steps past the bar. Hermione picked up his glass and reached for the bottle of whiskey again, pouring it over the still melting block of ice. She had learned that you could tell a lot about a person by their drink, especially when they asked for another of the same. Whiskey on the rocks. Not a whiskey purist, then. And yet, likely blood purist. Funny how consistency never mattered in the characters of those in power.

"Well that's an awful shame," he said, reaching for the glass before Hermione could set it down. With revulsion, she felt his cold fingers pass over hers. She yanked her hand away and indiscreetly wiped it on her black pants.

"On another night I might try to change your mind, but tonight calls for business and not pleasure," he lamented, letting out a dramatic sigh. "Though, I s'ppose they are one in the same."

He brought his other hand up to rest on the counter, and Hermione saw a bright red piece of cloth, tied with an innocent bow around his forearm. She felt her blood run cold. _Snatcher._

"You'll only find purebloods in here, I'm afraid," she said acerbically, attempting to sound annoyed to mask her terror.

"Unfortunately, sweetheart, I know for a fact that's not the case." He threw back the rest of his drink, and leaned conspiratorially toward her. "Why don't you go bring out your boss, eh darling? I think we should have a little chat."

"Dave," she shouted loudly over the din of the pub, not taking her eyes from the Snatcher. "Need you at the bar."

She felt her heart rise to her throat while she stared down a man who represented everything she despised. _Does he know? How could he know? Does that mean that Harry-_

Without permission, her deeply scarred brain dredged up a memory of the last time she had felt this way. Cornered. Almost discovered.

* * *

_She dared not breathe, not when he was inches from her. She was sure that he could hear her heartbeat, her pulse racing, her traitorous blood rushing loudly in her veins. He paused, sniffing the air before slowly turning in a full circle. His eyes passed over her, unseeing, but Hermione's heart stopped in her chest all the same. His body was frozen and alert, like a predator stalking its prey. He was clearly suspicious. _

_Hermione prayed to every god, every saint, every famous wizard or witch she knew that he wouldn't take a step in her direction._

_That's all it would take. Just a step. __One movement of his bloodstained black boots toward her, and the enchantment would be shattered. She and Harry would be arrested, brought to the Dark Lord, tortured-_

_She thought of the word carved into her arm already and felt it burn at the prospect of enduring worse. __Bellatrix had been crazy, but Voldemort was...was-_

_The Snatcher, with one last shrewd glance at the forest, slowly turned and headed back the way he had come. Hermione's fingers itched for her wand, sudden anger welling up in her at the idea of him getting away. __She moved her right hand toward her pocket slowly, reaching for the comfort of her wand, but she suddenly felt a hand grip her elbow. _

_"Not worth it," his familiar voice said in her ear, low enough to be discreet. _

_Watching as the Snatcher disappeared into the trees, she deflated and the felt the adrenaline leave her in a _whoosh_ of energy._

_"There's no honor in a kill like that."_

_"When has You-Know-Who shown us any honor?" Hermione's left fist clenched, but her right hand slid from her pocket, empty. _

_"We're not like him," came his soft reply. "We don't stoop to his level."_

_She wanted to argue more. She had no moral qualms about killing a man working for the Dark Lord, or even for his own selfish gain at their expense. Harry wanted to win without spilling unnecessary blood, but Hermione knew in her bones that it was kill or be killed in this world._

* * *

"Yeah, Hestia," her boss grunted, coming out from the back and wiping his pale hands on a towel. He was a big man, taller than the Snatcher by several inches and wider than him by several more. "What's going on? This man giving you trouble?"

He nodded at the Snatcher, oblivious to the red band on the customer's arm. Dave was usually a kind man, if not a little gruff, but he treated Hermione like a daughter. She didn't know how much she craved that father-like figure. If this was the end for her here, if she was found out and had to run, she knew she'd miss him.

The Snatcher smiled, slow and big. "I think you might be the one in trouble here, David Wood."

Dave's gaze sharpened, his eyes falling to the red band on the Snatcher's arm.

"I don't appreciate you coming to my bar, drinking my liquor, and then making vague threats. If you have something to say, just come out with it," Hermione's boss said, his body language unfazed as he leaned back on one arm against the shelves of alcohol behind him. She saw his fingers twitch closer to a bottle behind him.

The Snatcher stood slowly, his eyes locked on Dave's. _Like a predator stalking its prey._ Hermione's eyes darted around the bar. No one was aware of the confrontation that was occurring, but she had a distinct feeling that it wasn't going to end well.

"I've heard some things recently," the Snatcher said, reaching for his drink and swirling it around the glass; the picture of ease, as though he was about to share a bit of juicy gossip with an old friend. "Rumors, really. Some people 'round here've been saying that you're harboring mudbloods. What would you have to say to that?"

"I'd say that there's been a lot of petty jealousy since my bar's business picked up, and people will look for any chance to get ahead." Dave barely moved, his body stiff.

Hermione's eyes wavered between the two men. Her reassuring revelation that the Snatcher wasn't here for her, that Harry had not been found, was followed immediately by a curiosity and growing uneasiness.

"Well," the Snatcher said, setting his glass down on the bar again, "why don't we take a little walk back to your apartment and see for ourselves, hmm? Visit the wife, look for false walls-"

Hermione saw a quick movement, and before she knew it, Dave had a bottle of liquor in his hands and was bringing it down on the Snatcher's head. It connected with his skull with a sickening _crunch_, glass shattering and alcohol pouring over him as he staggered backwards. He bellowed out a string of curses, which Dave didn't stick around to hear. He vaulted over the back of the bar, making for the exit. For a man so big, he was agile as he maneuvered around customers, shoving a few out of his way before blowing through the back door of the Leaky Cauldron.

People's heads had lifted at the sound of breaking glass, and now the bar stunned into silence as the Snatcher shook his head and moved uncoordinatedly after Dave. Hermione began backing away, unsure if she should make her own escape, but she knew if she went missing after this then "Hestia Jones" would be dead. She would have to start over again, and Harry might never find her.

At the last second, the Snatcher turned his attention to Hermione and lunged for her, grabbing her wrist in his unforgiving grip. She let out a yell, struggling to get away, but he used her arm to drag her into him until she was pressed against him, her back to his front. With more strength than she would have expected, he hauled her towards the back exit. She couldn't reach for her wand and as she was about to cast non-verbally, she felt the point of his wand pressed into the skin of her neck. A clear warning.

The Snatcher used her body to open the door, the cold night air hitting her in an icy blast after the comfortable heat of the tavern.

"David!" the Snatcher called cheerfully, walking Hermione forward into the back alley. It was lined with houses, most of which were dark; it was well into the night, and almost curfew.

"Come out or I'll have to hurt your little bartender here." She felt his wand press further into her neck as his voice echoed in the dark. Wincing, she thought of all her training. _One well-placed kick, a jab upward with her elbow, maybe a head butt-_

"_Crucio_," she heard, right before her world erupted into pain. The Snatcher's arms loosened around her as she collapsed onto the street, writhing as imaginary daggers flayed her skin over and over, boiling it, lighting her blood on fire, shattering her bones, frying every nerve in her body-

"I'm not in the fuckin' mood for games tonight, Dave," she heard him say above her, his voice sounding almost bored as he continued to torture her.

Hermione couldn't hear herself screaming, even though she knew she had to be. She felt wetness on her face. _Was it blood? Her tears? She didn't know, didn't know anything, what even was her name, and how did she get here, and oh god, all she wanted was for it to stop, to stop, before her mind gave in, before her body shut down-_

"Enough," Dave's strained voice echoed from somewhere around them. "Enough, please. Let her go."

Suddenly the pain relented, and Hermione came back to her senses, which were flooded with pain, and her shaking hands and her spasming stomach and her aching head and her scorched throat that was gasping for air. She couldn't move; the residual agony kept her paralyzed.

"There's a good lad," the Snatcher replied patronizingly. Hermione kept her eyes closed, forcing herself to breathe and get her wits back.

"Throw me your wand, then, and no funny business. I can keep this up all night."

Hermione heard a sigh of despair from wherever Dave was, and then the sound of movement. Finally, the clack of two wooden wands in the hands of her torturer.

"After this night's over for him, why don't we have a little fun, hmm?" she heard him say down to her, before he kicked her aside. The breath left her in a rush, and she lay there, gasping for air. When she peeled her eyes open, she saw Dave kneeling before the Snatcher, his head bowed in submission and his own eyes looking desperately into hers. There was so much regret there, so much anger, so much defeat. It was an echo of every emotion she felt when she looked in the mirror.

"David Wood, you're under arrest for aidin' and harboring mudbloods in your own home," the Snatcher said, his tone almost gleeful as he looked down at the wilted man. He cocked his head to the side for a moment and studied his prey. "Although that warrant for your arrest said alive _or_ dead. And dead is so much more fun, wouldn't you agree?"

Dave's eyes barely had time to widen before a jet of green light left the Snatcher's wand, striking Hermione's boss squarely in the chest. Immediately his eyes went dull, and he toppled over in a heap, a puppet whose strings had been cut.

"No," Hermione choked out, trying to raise herself up, but her hands wouldn't work. She felt the heat pulse behind her eyes as tears threatened to spill over onto her cheeks. _Not another one. Not another ally gone._

The Snatcher studied the dead man for a moment before snapping Dave's wand in two. He dropped the jagged pieces over the corpse, pausing to spit on him before turning his attention to Hermione. She saw the gleam in his eye, and pushed herself up, willing her body to obey her. _She couldn't be here, she had to get away, she wouldn't let him, she'd rather die first-_

"Now that the dog's been put down, what do you say we enjoy the rest of this evening?" he asked conversationally, making his way across the cement to her while she desperately tried to scoot away.

She sent a nonverbal spell his way, gritting her teeth when he deflected it. "Nice try, sweetheart, but it'll take more'n 1st year spells to get rid of me."

He finally reached her and knelt before her, his hand ghosting over the dip of her waist and coming back up to rest just under her collarbone. She felt bile rise up in her mouth at his touch.

"Don't touch me," she spat, jerking away.

The Snatcher genuinely laughed, as though she had just said the funniest joke he'd ever heard. He reached out for her again, and just before his hand brushed her covered breast, she heard footsteps coming into the alley.

"Must you accost every woman you come across, Ethur?" a voice drawled from behind Hermione. Her head whipped back in time to see a tall man walking toward them, his pale blond hair glinting in the streetlights. "Really, it comes off rather desperate."

Hermione knew only one person with that hair, and her shocked suspicions were proven accurate when Draco Malfoy himself stepped out into a circle of light near them. His face looked different...more haggard, perhaps, but more defined. He had definitely grown into himself; he looked like a man now. His relation to his father had never been more physically obvious. She felt her heart grow cold. _Death Eater._

"Oh bugger off, Malfoy," the Snatcher- Ethur- muttered, seemingly cowed in the presence of an actual servant of the Dark Lord. "I was just havin' some fun." Clearly he knew enough of the young Death Eater to know his name. It seemed Draco had been busy making friends in low places since the Battle of Hogwarts.

Draco's eyes surveyed the scene, falling onto the dead man before moving back to Hermione and the Snatcher.

"I see," Draco murmured. He tilted his head toward Dave's body. "Is that the owner of the Cauldron, then?"

Ethur nodded vigorously, standing up and dusting himself off as if to make himself presentable. "Was, I s'ppose now. David Wood."

"That his wife?" Another head tilt toward Hermione. For a moment she was confused why he would ask, but then realized that of course he wouldn't recognize her. She wasn't Granger, Gryffindor mudblood. She was Hestia Jones, held together by polyjuice potion-a complete stranger to Draco Malfoy.

"Nah," Ethur replied, nudging her thigh with the tip of his boot, making Hermione cringe away from him. "Just a fuckin' bartender. Needed a little leverage to get him to come quietly, if you know what I mean."

Draco let out a noncommittal sound. "Well, unfortunately, that makes her a potential accomplice. She might have information about the ring of mudblood smuggling in London. You know about that, naturally-"

"Naturally," repeated Ethur, blinking frantically.

"-so I'm afraid I'm going to have to cut this little rendezvous short." He turned his attention to Hermione. "Go home tonight, but I expect you back at the Cauldron an hour before opening tomorrow for an official interview. If you do not show up on time, I will hunt down you and anyone you've ever met and make you wish that you shared David Wood's fate. Am I clear?" his voice was like a whip: sharp, pointed, and brandished as though he'd had much practice giving orders. And much practice having those orders obeyed.

She nodded curtly, her head racing. Finally able to stand, she wobbled to her feet and drew herself up to her full height, unwilling to show Malfoy any weakness. She'd already been weak enough tonight.

"Ethur, come with me. There are more important things to tend to than blood traitors," Draco said crisply, waving his hand in the air in a practiced motion. Hermione watched as Dave's body disappeared, his kind face gone forever. "And a good night to you."

It took Hermione a moment to realize this last statement was directed to her. She simply pressed her lips together and turned back, opening the door behind the bar and making a statement without saying a word, one she would've never dared to make on the run with Harry. One that she could make now, under a false identity. But even if it was risky and she knew he had escalated from petty bullying to murder, she wouldn't cower before him. Sure, she'd never _seen_ Malfoy kill anyone, but she had no doubt he had blood on his hands.

So as she allowed the door to slam behind her, she refused to acknowledge the silver pair of eyes staring intensely at her back.

_Fuck you and your blood purity, Malfoy. I wasn't yours to toy with at Hogwarts, and I'm not now._

* * *

**And here comes Draco... **

**Kat **


	3. Chapter 3: Rubato

**Hope everyone is quarantining well; I finally made my way back to this piece, and I figured now is as good a time as any to update!**

* * *

**2001**

Hermione saw the change in the faces of patrons as she walked back into the Cauldron. They were more wary now, watching her glide back behind the bar and keeping their eyes on her as they quickly drained their glasses. Suspecting that something had gone very wrong-as Dave's lack of presence was most certainly noted-the customers finished their drinks, slapped some money on the tables, and shuffled out slowly. Within a half hour, the Cauldron was empty.

Hermione used her wand to get rid of the mess of alcohol and glass caused by Dave and the Snatcher, even though she usually preferred to do such tasks by hand. She then resigned herself to washing glasses and replacing them in their proper cabinets, but her mind was whirling.

_Dave, and the Avada, Ethur and his grubby touch, nerve endings curling in on themselves, agony, then eyes of silver, Malfoy, there are more important things to tend to than blood traitors._

_Blood traitors. _

Hermione shuddered. That's what they'd all been called, everyone who'd been associated with her. Why she'd sent her parents to Australia. No one else would die. Not because of her.

She suddenly winced, realizing that she had been chewing her lip so hard that her teeth had broken the skin. Raising a finger to her mouth, she tenderly touched the spot and felt the sting of her salty skin against the small wound. When she pulled her finger away, it was stained red.

Normal. She bled red like any pureblood. And yet, in this world, somehow she wasn't normal enough to be human.

The world was so _bloody_ unfair.

As the last customer left the Cauldron behind, letting in a gust of chilly night air as they made their way out, Hermione set down the glass she'd been drying mindlessly and simply stood at the bar, listening to the crackle of the fire.

She felt something tickle in her throat, and made a sound to clear it. When it didn't leave, she took a breath, but then the sob that she had so far suppressed came bubbling up from deep inside her and left her mouth in a pathetic wail.

Clapping a hand over her mouth, Hermione hurried to the front door of the bar and locked it, turning off the outside lights and closing the blinds so that no lingering patrons would witness her meltdown.

She slid down the back of the door into an undignified heap on the alcohol-stained floor, trying and failing to fight the tears. Her breaths came and went violently, and she could feel the black spots of panic clouding her vision.

She scrambled for her wand to cast a Calming Charm, only to remember that it wasn't in the pocket of her trousers, but in her coat. The panic grew, until her heaving breaths and erratic sobs made her head spin with dizziness. Her hands came up to clasp her head between them in an attempt to stanch the thoughts echoing like death knells in her mind.

_Why did he have to die? Why couldn't I have been stronger? It's my fault he's dead. Dave's dead. One of the few who was kind to me in this godforsaken city. He's dead and his family and all those Muggleborns will-_

_Oh, Merlin. His family. The Muggleborns. _

Hermione's head shot up from where she had cradled it in her hands, her mind instantly clear. She had to warn them; she had to do something. Voldemort would have them all killed-

Not bothering to wipe the tear stains from her cheeks, she flew to the bar and grabbed her coat, not bothering to put away the glasses still sitting on the counter. As she turned to pick up her things, her elbow accidentally knocked one of the glasses over and onto the floor. It shattered loudly, causing Hermione to wince.

Vowing to clean it up first thing the next morning, she flicked the lights off in the Leaky Cauldron and let herself out the back, purposefully not looking at the spot where Dave had been murdered.

_I won't fail you in this_, she thought. _I'll save your family and the innocents you fought to protect. Your death won't have been in vain._

Then she pulled her cloak tight around her body and fled into the night, running like You-Know-Who himself was chasing her.

For all she knew, maybe he was.

* * *

She knocked on the door again, more frantically this time.

"Jada, please! It's Her-Hestia Jones. From the Cauldron." Another loud knock. "Please, it's bloody _important_-"

The door swung open, revealing Jada Wood, her dark skin lightened in the moonlight. Her brown eyes were wide with fear, and she had her wand up threateningly as though she expected danger.

"Jada," Hermione breathed, watching as the woman lowered her wand a few inches. "Something's happened. You have to take your family and run. Your husband-"

She cut off as a little boy not more than five years old ran to the door, half-hiding behind his mother's legs and staring up at Hermione with inquisitive inky eyes. Hermione recognized his picture from one that Dave had shown her. His oldest son, Isaac.

"Whozat, Mama?" he asked, pointing at the young witch with sticky little fingers.

"A friend," Jada replied, leaning down and taking Isaac's face in her hands. "Now, what did I say? Finish packing your stuff. If you're done in five minutes, Mama will buy you a chocolate, okay?"

Isaac's eyes lit up, and he scurried back into the house. Jada immediately leaned out into the street, looking both ways before tugging Hermione inside.

"Jada, I'm so sorry to tell you this, but it's important. Dave's been murdered, and the Death Eaters will come knocking at your door any minute. You have to-"

"I know," Jada replied firmly, looking Hermione in the eye.

The young witch paused in her rant, staring blankly at the woman. "You-you know?"

Jada nodded solemnly. "A man came by earlier. Warned me that my family was in danger and that we would have to flee or face high treason and execution."

Hermione's blood ran cold. Only three people currently knew about Dave's death, and she was pretty sure the other two weren't the kind to come around knocking and warning his widow of her impending demise. "A...a man? What did he look like?"

"Tall, brown hair, brown eyes. No one I recognized. He was urgent, though. Seemed very concerned for our family." Jada's eyes filled with tears as she spoke.

_Well, it didn't sound like Ethur or Malfoy. But who could've warned them?_

"Let me help you pack," Hermione offered, clasping the woman's hands in hers. She hadn't known Jada as well as she'd known Dave, but in this moment she knew she'd die for the woman if it came down to that.

Jada shook her head. "No. I'm not putting anyone else in danger. I've already had to…" she seemed to choose her words carefully, "send some others away."

"I know about the Muggleborns," Hermione stated quietly.

It was Jada's turn to look shocked. She started to pull her hands away, but Hermione held on.

"You are the most noble soul in this entire city for what you've done. There are very few as brave as you, and none who would sacrifice their lives for people who aren't considered people." Hermione felt emotion choke her. The woman would never know just how personal this felt to Hermione, who held each Muggleborn life as dearly as she held her own.

"I will not stand by in comfort while others suffer." Jada's voice trembled, but there was steel in her words.

She took one of her hands away then, and raised it to Hermione's face. "Please take care of the Cauldron for us. It's what Dave would have wanted." She studied the younger woman's eyes for a second. "If they find out that you know anything-"

"I'm trained in Occlumency," Hermione replied firmly. "Your secret will be safe with me." She paused. "However, it might be best for you not to tell me where you're going, just in case."

"You are the most courageous witch of our age, Hestia," Jada murmured before pulling Hermione into a tight hug.

Hermione could barely contain her tears as she heard the phrase, an almost twin of the one that had followed her throughout her years at Hogwarts and beyond.

_You're the brightest witch of your age, Hermione._

She briefly wondered if she would ever hear her name spoken by anyone ever again.

"Good luck," Hermione whispered, clutching the older woman in a way she wished she could cling to Harry. Or Ron. Or Ginny.

On a whim, her heart beating erratically, she took a chance and said under her breath, "Born from ashes."

"Rise in fire," Jada whispered back, her hold releasing as she searched Hermione's eyes curiously.

Without answering the unasked question, Hermione gave another squeeze of Jada's hand and walked toward the entrance, letting herself out and closing the heavy door behind her.

She gave herself three breaths: one breath of longing, to escape like Jada and her family would. One breath of sadness, that she was trapped here without her best friend or any allies at all. One breath of preparation, of bravery, for the path ahead: Malfoy's interview, changing ownership of the bar, waiting and waiting for someone, _anyone_ to find her. Preferably a someone with green eyes and a lightning scar.

But all that could wait until tomorrow.

As Hermione walked down the street toward a Knight Bus stop, she pulled her cloak tighter around herself and let herself wonder about the Muggleborns that Jada had sent away. Did they make it out? Did they find another safehouse? Would she ever make it out? Her heart thudded at the thought, and she quickly shoved it away. _Harry will come. He's finding the others, like he promised, and then he'll come._

The Knight Bus came to a screeching halt in front of her, and she gave a polite nod to an Imperiused Stan Shunpike before sitting in silence until the bus stopped with a lurch in her neighborhood only minutes later. She drew no attention to herself, per usual, but stopped outside her own front door, feeling suddenly unsure.

_Don't be a coward now, Granger_, she scolded herself. _There are no monsters under your bed tonight. They're on the streets, and they won't find you here._

Like every night, Hermione sent up a prayer of thanks to Hestia Jones, wherever the poor woman was, for allowing her to use the woman's name. She always vowed to live up to the name of an esteemed Order member.

Waiting another beat until she was at peace, Hermione allowed her frozen breath to rise into the sky, a tiny unseen smoke signal in a city of fog. She exhaled this plea, and watched as her breath-and her hope-left her mouth and dissolved into the crisp London night. Then she opened her front door and entered, turning to shut out the cold and mourning the fact that she could not do the same with the bitterness in her heart.

* * *

**1999**

She threw a hex back at the man hot on her heels, and watched as he tumbled sideways and fell into a graceless heap. She leapt over his outstretched arms and landed hard on the forest floor covered in dead leaves and pine needles. There were patches of snow as well, capturing her footprints like a photograph as she wound her way around the dark imposing trees.

"Harry!" she called, whipping her head around to find her best friend. She saw several more men lumbering in her direction, their wands out and their faces angry. "Harry!"

She shot a stinging hex and several other nastier versions in their paths, not watching to see if she landed them. She made her legs go faster, cursing her lack of athletic ability as her chest tightened. She heard shouting and the crashing of bodies through the forest.

"Harry! Harr-oof!" She lost her breath as she knocked into another person, and for a terrifying second she thought it was all over before he gripped her upper arms and she saw his black hair flop into his face.

"Let's go," Harry said, and Hermione thanked Merlin a thousand times over as they raced for the edge of the territory, toward the Apparation Zone. Harry kept Hermione's hand tight in his, but they lost their balance when a spell hit the large tree directly to their left.

"Duck!" Hermione shouted as the giant oak tipped their way. The pair darted out of the way and kept their heads down. When they crossed the border, with outraged shouts echoing behind them, Hermione felt it like a breath of fresh air.

"Home," Harry said, and Hermione imagined 12 Grimmauld Place with all her might, desperate to return safely and catch her breath.

The world spun horribly for several seconds and Hermione was reminded just how much she hated Apparating before they stood in front of the home of the Order. Harry hustled her inside and muttered the counter-spells to the traps they'd set, and Hermione barely made it inside the front door before she was stumbling.

"Woah, I got you," Harry said, his arms coming around her and keeping her upright as she staggered forward. "Come on. Couch."

She let him basically drag her to the living room couch and gratefully sank into the cushions like she could become part of the fabric.

"We're...we're okay," Hermione said disbelievingly. "That's the closest they've gotten to us since…"

She looked up and met Harry's sad eyes for a second before both of them buried the memory. No more death, not even in their thoughts. Not today.

Harry sat on the floor in front of her, his foot pressed up against hers as if he needed a physical reminder she was there.

"We didn't get the Horcrux," he mumbled, playing with a frayed bit of cloth on his shirt. "The Order was counting on us and we didn't get it."

"We'll get it," she said reassuringly, reaching down for his hands and holding it on the edge of her lap. "And we'll be fine."

Harry watched as she played with his fingers, her cold skin pressed against his warm callouses.

"Do you ever think about it?" he asked, not removing his gaze from where they were joined.

"What, the Horcrux?" she said. "Of course."

"No," he said, his eyes shifting up to hers. "Us. You and me, I mean."

"Oh," she replied, breaking eye contact and looking away uncomfortably. It was silent for a minute.

"I can't say I haven't thought about it," Harry said, scooting a little closer. "You're my closest friend. I need you like I don't need anyone else. What if it's not platonic? What if it's, you know, something more than that?"

"I don't know," Hermione said doubtfully. "This is war, and all we have is each other. What if we're just lonely?"

Harry shrugged. "Only one way to find out."

Before she could react, he had sat up and reached for her head, pulling her closer until their noses bumped into each other. When she didn't immediately recoil, Harry closed the distance and let their lips meet.

It wasn't passionate, it wasn't desperate. It wasn't two lovers curled against each other to keep out the cold and the bad memories. It wasn't a deep need, a fire in her heart that ignited. It was just two friends kissing, and she knew with certainty that this wasn't her great love.

Harry pulled away reluctantly and looked at her, his eyes so much more green up close. Her heart lurched in her chest, absolutely terrified to tell him how she felt, that she didn't feel this for him-

"Lonely," Harry confirmed, moving backward and falling back to a seated position at Hermione's feet. "That didn't feel...it wasn't…"

"Right?" Hermione finished, feeling her breath release in deep relief.

"Oh good," Harry sighed. "You feel the same way. That was definitely _not_ anything."

"Ouch," she said, but the smile on her face gave her away.

"Oh you know what I mean," he replied, nudging her foot. "You're an excellent kisser. We're just not…"

"Meant to be."

"Exactly."

There was comfortable silence between the two for several seconds before suddenly Hermione snorted, and Harry guffawed, and then they were both bent forward, clutching their stomachs and rolling with pure laughter.

"What were we"-Hermione gasped-"thinking?"

"I don't know, but oh Merlin that was so awkward," Harry wheezed. "I'm so sorry."

"No, no, don't be," she said, Harry's figure blurred in her tears caused by her giggling. "At least now we know-oh Merlin, my stomach _hurts_-"

It took several more minutes before they both were able to calm themselves, and Hermione had to wipe away moisture from both eyes as they let out sighs of relief and catharsis.

"I love you, 'Mione," Harry said as they settled down. "I really do. You're still my best friend."

"I love you too, Harry James Potter," she replied, placing her hand in his again. "We'll get through all of this together."

Harry's face sobered at the reminder, and his face took on the weariness Hermione usually saw in his visage. It suddenly occurred to her that when he laughed he looked younger, and Hermione hadn't heard him laugh like that since before the war.

"Yeah," he agreed, and they sat in silence for the rest of the evening, their brief distraction gone like smoke and the reality of their duty before them.

* * *

**Short chapter, but it looks longer on my Doc :)**

**Kat**


	4. Chapter 4: Accelerando

**Welcome back. Quarantine exists still. I am barely alive. But here's another chapter; enjoy.**

* * *

**1996**

"But, Professor, he's a complete and utter _git _\- "

"Oh, like you're not just a whinging little mud...muggleborn - "

"-and I refuse to be partnered with him."

"Well, I refuse to be partnered with you first, so HA - "

"Oh, very mature, Malfoy - "

"You should try brushing your bushy hair out of your face sometime and see that no one gives a single fu - "

"Mr. Malfoy. Miss Granger." Professor Snape's voice was sharp, but his eyes were sharper as they moved between the two cross students. Hermione thought he looked quite like his neck was immobilized, and all he could manage was looking down his nose at them. "I believe this matter can be handled like the mature young adults that you are. Unless you would both prefer to visit Headmaster Dumbledore about this?"

"No, Professor," Hermione said obediently, stepping forward a bit. "But, sir, Malfoy and I believe that we are rather ill-suited to be partners. Is there any way we could switch? Perhaps with students in our respective houses - "

"And do you expect me to give the rest of the class special treatment?" Snape asked lazily.

"Well, no, but-"

"Then I do wonder why we are still having this conversation, Miss Granger."

"But sir, wouldn't you prefer to have order in your classroom? Malfoy and I have a long history of, ah, distracting each other - "

"I'm quite sure you two will work something out," Snape said, turning from Hermione's pained expression and Draco's smirk. "That is, if you don't want to lose all your houses' hard-earned points. Now, is that all?" His tone indicated that it better be all.

"Y-yes, Professor." Hermione clasped her hands in front of her, biting her lip in annoyance as Snape dramatically flipped his dark robes and disappeared behind a mountain of books sitting on his desk.

"Y-yes, Professor," Draco mocked, wringing his hands in pretend terror.

"Oh, sod off, Malfoy," Hermione said curtly, her hands curled into fists as she turned to leave their Potions classroom.

"Wait, Granger - " His voice stopped her, but she didn't turn back toward him.

"We need to schedule a time to work on this potion. Preferably soon, so we can be done with this as quickly as possible."

"It takes a month to brew," she replied automatically, twisting to look at his face.

Draco simply rolled his eyes at her correction. "Whatever."

Hermione nibbled on her bottom lip again. "Library, Saturday morning?"

"But Hogsmeade," Draco whined, as though that was explanation enough.

Now it was Hermione rolling her eyes. "Would you prefer to fail Potions, then?"

Draco studied her with his unnervingly silver eyes. "Fine. 7:30. So I can get to Hogsmeade after."

Hermione simply nodded at him, turning and leaving the blonde boy behind her.

* * *

Draco would not stop his interminable tapping.

His pointer finger was lightly beating against the side of his Potions textbook as he read intensely, the space between his eyebrows wrinkling in concentration.

Hermione was notably glad he was focusing, but she grit her teeth at the _tap tap tap _of his finger.

It was 8:30am. They'd been at this for a little under an hour. Hermione clearly understood the potion, but Draco had insisted on double-checking the methods for preparing each ingredient.

Begrudgingly, she had realized he was right. But she would take a Dementor's Kiss before she told him that.

"Will you," she said between her teeth, "desist?"

Draco let out a questioning 'hmm' and dragged his eyes with much effort from the textbook before meeting Hermione's. She recognized the hazy look of concentration on his face that usually adorned her own and secretly appreciated his attention to their partnership.

"Your tapping," she hissed. "Please. I'm trying to focus."

Malfoy lifted his hands in mock surrender, his facial expression seemingly both annoyed and amused. She couldn't imagine what could be quite so amusing about the fact that he was keeping her from working hard on a project they both would get a grade for.

She lowered her head back down to her own Potions book- one that she had checked out from the library late the night before in preparation for that morning- and continued reading about Amortentia and its effects…

...before she was distracted yet again.

"Malfoy!" she hissed. "I literally _just_ said - "

"I'm sorry for concentrating, Granger, I don't know what you want from me."

"I want you to stop _tapping_ like a bloody drummer - "

"Are you on your monthly or something? I swear to Salazar you've been moody this whole bloody morning - "

"How _dare_ you!" She slammed her book shut and seriously thought about hexing him into the Great Lake, but was quickly reprimanded by a loud "Shhh!" Ms. Pince, the librarian, was glaring at the two of them from the front desk, her pinched features even more pronounced as she scowled.

Hermione, thoroughly rebuked, whispered a politely apologetic "Sorry!" before turning back to the source of her ulcers and muttering a less polite, "You are the bane of my existence."

"The feeling, I assure you, is mutual," Malfoy replied in a low voice, going back to his reading.

Hermione huffed and tried to do the same.

_Amortentia is the strongest love potion to ever exist. It cannot manufacture real love, but it can manipulate emotions for a time. In some extreme cases, it can cause an unhealthy obsession. When brewed properly, the potion smells like what attracts each individual person. _

Hermione knew all of this. In fact, she had done most of this reading previously, taking meticulous notes and marking up the pages of the book. Besides the fact that she was an overachiever to the highest degree, a large reason why she was still sitting with the Bane of Her Existence in the back of the library on a Saturday morning was to discover why Malfoy was acting off.

She'd noticed it for about the past week. He had become suddenly very nervous, spending more time in Snape's office and not appearing to meals as often. He seemed jumpy whenever she was around, his eyes constantly looking as though his mind was very far away.

He had started tapping again, but as she opened her mouth to tell him where he could stuff his incessant need to torture her, she noticed that same far-away expression in his face and closed her mouth. He was chewing on his bottom lip, as she often did, and for the first time she recognized everything-the tapping, the biting his lip, the lack of attention-as anxiety. Malfoy was nervous about something, and it obviously seemed as though the anticipation was killing him.

He also had been less cruel to her. And it wasn't that he had changed his stance on Muggleborns, or that he suddenly had an epiphany about the kind of person he was. It was as if he simply didn't have time to torment her.

Almost worried by this anti-Malfoy behavior, Hermione continued to study him.

"Has something happened?" she finally asked. She asked honestly, but she didn't truly expect an answer. And she was correct in her expectations.

Draco's eyes snapped to hers. "You mean has something happened to that bushy mane of yours? No, not to worry, it's still as awful as it was yesterday."

Hermione refused to rise to the bait. "No, Malfoy, I mean that you seem distant. Is everything okay with…" - she shifted uncomfortably - "your family? I mean...your parents? Did something - "

"I don't see why you suddenly care, Granger," he drawled, closing his book more quietly than Hermione had. "What happened is that they let a Mudblood like you into our school, and now your prying into my personal life is going to make us late on our Potions assignment."

Hermione recoiled slightly at the slur and tried not to show it on her face. No matter how many times he or any other Slytherin used it, it still stung. Not that she would ever let him know.

"I was only making sure my partner wasn't going to fuck up this project because of some personal drama," Hermione snipped, watching as Draco reached over to put his textbook into his backpack. He stood soon after, bag slung over his shoulder.

"A pleasure, as always, Granger," he said dryly, his twisted face making clear exactly how little pleasure he was actually feeling at that particular moment.

"Next Saturday?" she simply asked.

"I think we can do just fine working on our parts separately, wouldn't you agree?"

He left without another word, walking quickly out of the library and keeping his head down, as though afraid someone would notice him.

_Prat_, Hermione thought. Then, with every ounce of effort she possessed, she turned back to her textbook and continued reading.

She couldn't help but wonder, nastily, if slipping Malfoy some of their Amortentia brew might make him more amenable to their partnership.

Bleach-blond, anti-social, rude, stupid, bloody _git_.

* * *

Mud-haired, nosy, annoying, stupid, bloody _swot_.

Draco fumed. She just couldn't let things go, could she? Especially if it was none of her business.

And this was none of her business. _He_ was none of her business.

"Fuck," he swore out loud, the sound bouncing off the dungeon walls. What if she kept digging? What if she found out - ?

Draco had a job to do. He had a _role_, and all he had to do was one small thing and then he'd be safe. He could go back to the Manor, find a nice pureblood woman-probably Astoria Greengrass, if he was being reasonable-settle down, and start a family.

Unconsciously, Draco reached under the left sleeve of his robes and felt for the still bumpy and recent addition to the skin of his forearm. He thought it felt quite like what he'd expect a tattoo to feel like, though a normal tattoo wouldn't kill him for disobeying.

He knew the shape and design without glancing at it. He had cried over it for days and knew exactly what it looked like-blurred by his tears or not.

Literally, it was a snake and a skull. But it was more than that. It was a brand, a seal of loyalty, a mark of ownership.

Draco had a job to do. Do it, and get out. That became his mantra. But the more he obsessed over details, thinking about the right time, the more anxious he became. It began to show in his hollowed cheeks and his bloodshot eyes and nervous twitching. And now the Mudblood had picked up on it.

Draco had a fucking job to do. And so help him, as long as he had the Malfoy name, he would shove down his meddling emotions and get it done. It's what his father would've done. And he would not disappoint the people who believed in him most.

* * *

**2001**

Hermione tidied up the Cauldron, missing the banter she usually shared with Dave in the early afternoon when they opened together.

_No drinking before opening, or I'll take it out of your pay - grumpily, from Dave._

_Promise? - sweetly, from Hermione._

She lit the fire with magic, allowing herself to conjure up the faces of her friends and stare as they flickered in the flames. First Harry's, then Ron's, Ginny's, Luna's, Remus's, Tonks's, Kingsley's…

She dismissed them with a flick of her wrist and paused before hesitantly conjuring the two faces she wanted to see the most.

Dark hair, pale skin, kind eyes. Wide smiles that stretched ear to ear. A teasing reminder to brush twice a day and floss if she wanted her teeth to be as perfect as theirs.

Dr. and Dr. Granger. Mum and Dad.

She let out a sigh and watched the faces interact, her mum's throwing itself back in a particularly hearty laugh. Hermione's heart sank in her chest and she waved her hand again, watching as the faces faded into the flames, which seemed to crackle appreciatively.

Hermione had tried to keep tabs on her parents, but had very quickly lost touch when she went on the run. She thought everything would be alright, that she had covered her tracks enough, when she overheard a conversation in the Cauldron about a raid in Australia.

She didn't know for sure if her parents had been found, but she had mourned them anyway, unwilling to let her hope fester and slowly kill her. Better to believe they were dead and never coming back, and focus on surviving. If Harry could survive without parents, then so could she.

_Can I, though?_ That broken, weak voice spoke in her mind. This was the part of her that had grown from a small shoot of doubt and vulnerability to a weed of fear, cowardice, and weakness.

So hard she might have physically felt it, Hermione slammed a mental door on the voice, drowning it out with the noise of glassware as she moved bottles of liquor around for no apparent reason. Then she reached for her small flask of polyjuice potion and took a large gulp, making sure that nothing went awry during her interview. She almost choked as the foul-tasting liquid slid down her throat.

_Pull yourself together, Granger_, Hermione chided herself. _Malfoy's coming in a bit, and you can show him no weakness. Your life, and Harry's-and everyone else's-depends on it._

Inhaling deeply and then exhaling, she felt her pulse slow and then promptly made herself busy cleaning the bar and the tables until they shined.

At one point, she became so absorbed in scrubbing a particularly difficult-and unknown-stain from the back of a chair that she completely missed the front door of the Cauldron opening and closing.

A throat cleared and Hermione's head shot up from her task, her hand frozen on the chair and her lip still trapped between her teeth in concentration.

It was Draco Malfoy, standing casually in _her_ bar, arms crossed over his chest-the total picture of nonchalance and assurance.

"Good day, Mr. Malfoy," she said curtly, standing and wiping a hand across her forehead before retreating to the bar. She threw her dirty cleaning rag in the sink and watched from the corner of her eye as he approached the bar.

"So you know who I am," he mused, resting his elbows on the wood surface and leaning in, an imperceptibly small smirk on his lips.

Hermione's fingers itched to wipe it off his face, much like that time in third year. Only this time, he had many more sins to pay for.

Instead of punching him in the nose, she lifted her shoulders in a shrug. "Not that hard to figure out. White blond hair, aristocratic features, Dark Mark" - she pointed to his forearm - "and tendency to show up where not wanted."

He cocked his head to the side, studying her. "I believe last night you seemed rather glad when I showed up."

"It was nothing I couldn't handle," she snapped, feeling him get beneath her skin already. _Calm down. Answer his questions to the extent he needs. Nothing more._

"You're brave for a bartender." There was curiosity in his tone, probing at her reactions to see what she'd give him. "Most people see my Mark and hurry on their way. Or beg for their lives. Depends on the day."

_Could he be any more of a prat?_ She thought angrily, turning away from him to pour herself a drink. Any conversation with Mr. My-Father-Will-Hear-About-This required 80-proof.

No, scratch that.

Better make it 100-proof.

* * *

Draco Lucius Malfoy had begun his morning per usual, with a girl to kick out of his bed, a slice of toast with marmalade, and a nice warm shower. Even though he worked for a sadistic psychopath, he was used to looking at the plus side, the positive. He was a glass-half-full kind of wizard, even if that glass was half-filled with poison.

It was the only thing keeping him from crumbling, if he was honest. And these days he so rarely was.

He had done some research in preparation for his interview that day with Miss Hestia Jones, the only full time employee at the Leaky Cauldron - well, owner, now, he supposed.

Miss Hestia Asteria Jones. Hestia, probably named after the Greek goddess of the hearth. Asteria, Greek goddess of falling stars. Her parents must've been fascinated with myths of old. Not that he could fault them of course, what with his family historically naming their own children after constellations.

Draco had taken Muggle Studies back in his days at Hogwarts - begrudgingly perhaps - but now he was grateful for it. It told him more about the mysterious Hestia Jones than he might've otherwise known.

Fire and falling stars. Quite a legacy for Ms. Jones. He wondered if she'd live up to it.

And now she stood in front of him, cold as an Arctic Frostfang, barely giving him the time of day while pouring herself a bloody fucking drink.

_What crawled up her arse and died?_ He thought nastily, and then thought twice and remembered her dead boss, and possibly friend. _Oh. Well - still._

Hestia only shrugged in response to his taunt, her shoulders stiff and her mouth pressed into a thin line.

Draco felt his eyebrows draw together as he looked at this woman. She seemed entirely unafraid, as though she was daring him to accuse her of the crime that he had last night. He wasn't quite sure what would happen if he did.

He was very used to being in control. Years of discipline, sucking back tears, nursing deep wounds in silence had trained him to react to nothing. Not death, not torture, and certainly not a girl whose native language seemed to be insolence.

Furthermore, her guardedness raised red flags in his mind. She hated him for some reason. Sure, he was a Death Eater-so, not exactly Mother Teresa-but this felt personal. He scoured his brain to see if there was any way he knew Hestia Jones from anywhere, but he didn't recognize her at all. The only thing he recognized was that bloody spark in her eye. Granger always had that back in school. It was fucking annoying to see it again.

"Hestia Asteria Jones," he said, watching as she stiffened more. He enjoyed making her uncomfortable, he found. "That's your full name. You're a pureblood, and you moved to London three years ago, after the Battle of Hogwarts."

He watched for a reaction, but the only one he got was casual blinking. Something did flit across her face at his words, but only for a split second, and it was undecipherable to him.

"So you can operate an Accio for my file," she said, turning away from him. "You want a bloody medal?"

Draco's hackles rose. How _dare_ she -

"If you want this to be a fucking interrogation, I'll make it a bloody fucking interrogation. How about I get some of my friends to join me. You've heard of me, so I'm sure you've heard of Nott? Perhaps Dolohov? Lestrange?"

Hestia paled, but Draco couldn't stop himself.

"You're going to look at me when you answer my questions, and you will do it with a smile on your face or so help me, I will hand you over to my _friends_ until you understand exactly what the hell I want from you." His voice was incredibly sharp, and even he was shocked by the harsh words that escaped his mouth.

Hestia's mouth parted slightly in surprise. Her face was still white, but he did see a flash of anger in those eyes. For a second, he half-expected her to fight him back, but instead she leaned into the counter, slamming her drink on the counter and placing both palms on the wood, awaiting his next move. His eyes met hers, steel grey meeting earthy brown.

"Ms. Jones, how well would you say you knew Mr. Wood?"

He saw a first vulnerable emotion then, her face sagging with misery.

"He was like my family," she said, and he actually believed her. "He took me in when I had no one. Gave me the most shifts at the bar because I had nothing better to do anyway." She seemed to realize her weakness and clammed up, emotions shuttering away behind her tight eyes and mouth.

"And were you aware of any illegal activities-hiding Mudbloods for instance?"

"Dave never told me anything." Her voice cracked out, sharp as his had been but slightly more brittle, unused to using that tone. "I found out what he was doing last night after he…" She trailed off.

"And how do you feel about Mr. Wood aiding Mudbloods?" Draco asked, genuinely curious as to what her answer might be.

Hestia's jaw clenched. "I think that it's against the law."

"Yes, but that's not what I asked, is it?"

There was a pause, as though Hestia was choosing her words carefully. From what he had gathered of her so far, she probably was.

"The most sublime act is to set another before you," she finally said, matter-of-factly, as though that was an obvious answer to the issue at hand.

"Ah, yes. William Blake."

She blinked. "You're familiar with Muggle poets?"

"I could ask the same. Tell me, how is it that your pureblood parents became so fascinated with Muggle culture?"

"Probably the same as yours, _Draco_."

Although he felt odd at this woman using his first name, Draco refused to take the bait.

"It's still not an answer to my original question."

"No, it's not," she agreed, looking at him fiercely, daring him to challenge her yet again.

Draco had come here for answers and found himself about to leave with very few.

"I will be back tomorrow," he said, standing up straight and running a pale hand through his even paler hair. "Your answers have been less than satisfactory. Perhaps once you have a day to process, the events leading up to Mr. Wood's death will have become much clearer."

Hestia only nodded, and something flamed in Draco's chest. Something wild and reckless - a part of him that wanted to strangle her and a part that wanted to know exactly what she was hiding. Because she was hiding something.

"Good day," he continued, twirling his wand and Apparating out of the Leaky Cauldron, leaving the bartender behind and entering his flat with a _crack_.

Well, he hadn't gotten nearly the information he wanted from her. And better him than any other Death Eater. He had volunteered for this particular case, even though it was below his paygrade, because he felt like he could get inside her head, understand how much she knew about the smuggling of Muggleborns out of London.

This conversation had been a disaster. But Draco Lucius Malfoy was a glass-half-full man, and he'd be damned before he gave up.

There was more research to be done.

* * *

Hermione breathed out loudly as Malfoy Disapparated from the Cauldron, leaving only the sound of the crepitating fire.

What was she going to do? Malfoy could clearly tell that something was wrong, and Hermione had never known him to leave an issue alone.

What had gotten _into_ her? Why couldn't she have just acted like the docile, nervous bartender who'd never been accused of anything in her life? Why had she _insisted_ on pushing his buttons?

_This is not about retribution, Granger. This is survival, and you're doing a bloody awful job of it -_

Her skin itched, and she suddenly felt like she had to get away, to run until her legs gave out, just to get out of this bloody suffocating town -

Then, like a dream, The Boy Who Lived appeared in her bar.

* * *

Hestia Jones was _dead_.

Draco flipped through the file again, just to be sure. There it was, plain as day, scrawled in the Muggle coroner's rather painstaking handwriting.

_Name of Deceased: Hestia Jones_

_Sex: Female_

_Age: 23_

_Place of Death: Central London, an alley next to the apartment of the deceased_

_Cause of Death: Unknown_

Unknown. He knew what that meant. A wizard or witch, killed and disposed of in Muggle London? The Killing Curse. It continued to confuse the muggles to no end. A perfectly healthy person, suddenly just dead with no biological explanation.

And then the kicker:

_Date of Death: June 7th, 1998_

Draco had done some light reading on the Jones family. Purebloods, with one half-blood outlier. Their line stretched way back, but they had never mingled in high Pureblood society. Hestia Jones was most definitely a pureblood, but according to this report, she was also most definitely dead.

His mind whirled. Every other wizarding report mentioned no such thing. Even gossip about the witch was innocuous; Hestia Jones was as alive and well as ever, if looking a bit young for her age, although that was probably due to an anti-aging potion.

Except now he had a muggle report, and - well, ding dong, the witch was dead.

But she wasn't. Unless…

Draco blinked. Just who had he been talking to in that bar?

He tried to think of every angle. Possession? No, signs of rotting would have been obvious. Charms to alter appearance? Too complicated. Something would have slipped.

Polyjuice potion?

A light went on in his brain. _That's entirely too possible…_

Not many knew, but the ingredients of Polyjuice potion were also quite similar to the ingredients needed for a heavy Sleeping Draught. The lie would've been obvious. It would be far too easy to keep a steady stock. The black market wasn't exactly impossible to find; even he used it from time to time.

"Bloody _hell_," Draco swore, closing the coroner's report violently and rubbing at his temples, trying to get his thoughts in order.

Someone was masquerading as a pureblood. He didn't know why, but he was going to march back into that bar, slam the report down, and watch her face to see exactly what she was hiding -

_No, bad idea_, he thought, stopping his train of thought. _She'd run, or she'd fight. And I need information. If she's hiding what I think she is, she'd kill herself before she told me anything._

Not for the first time, Draco mentally thanked his mother for her constant lectures on patience. His aunt Bella would've rushed in, hoping to create as much damage as possible. His aunt Andromeda would've simply let the matter go, never so much as creating a ripple of trouble.

But he was a Malfoy. And Malfoys were nothing if not persistent.

Draco grabbed the nearest quill and began writing a letter, determined to find out what was going on in his city.

* * *

"Harry?" Hermione choked out incredulously, rooted to the spot in shock. Her muscles were frozen, but her mind was anything but as it whirred _it can't possibly - but it is - maybe Polyjuice? Someone masquerading as Harry? - but no, it's so very him, even that small smile, it's got to be -_

"Harry?" she repeated, feeling tears well up in her eyes.

"Hey, Mione," The Chosen One replied gently, anticipating her movement before she had even realized she was moving toward him and collapsing against his chest, arms wrapped tight around his middle.

"Is this - are you…" Hermione broke off, pushing away from him and wiping at the water on her cheeks. She pulled out her wand, determined to do this right.

"What was I looking for when I met you and Ronald on the train our first year?" she asked, barely able to keep her wand still-from anticipation or fear, she wasn't sure.

"You were looking for Neville's toad," he said, looking remarkably calm and put together, "and then proceeded to verbally assault us both."

"And what was the last thing you said to me before we split up?"

"I'll find you. I'll get the others, and I'll come back for you." Harry shifted on his feet, giving her a reassuring smile.

Hermione let out an audible sob before returning to his arms, holding on like she was afraid he'd evaporate in her grasp.

"I thought I'd never see you again...I thought you might die and then what would we have done?" she accused, feeling her tears stain his shirt.

_Wait._

She pulled away, frowning at the blue shirt he wore, under a zip-up jacket.

"This is what you were wearing at the Battle of Hogwarts," she said, reaching for it and rubbing it between her fingers. Harry's clothing had been so destroyed that the minute they'd apparated away from the carnage, she'd given him new clothes and burned the ones that he'd been wearing. The blue shirt and zip-up jacket shouldn't exist, especially not clean and in one piece. Merlin knew Harry couldn't operate a _Reparo_ or a cleaning spell if his life depended on it.

Hermione looked up and met Harry's eyes, watching as he continued looking down at her with that familiar kind expression. She felt a knot form in her chest.

"_Legilimens_," she whispered, and expected to be hurled into Harry's mind, but instead she felt nothing. No memories, not even a block that suggested Occlumency. It was like static from a broken Muggle television.

"Harry, how did you know it was me?" she asked cautiously, attempting to sort through all of this new data and reconcile it with what she'd previously thought. "I've taken Polyjuice. You couldn't have known."

"I _would_ know what's going on in my own mind, wouldn't I?" Harry asked fondly, reaching up to ruffle Hermione's-Hestia's-hair. "After all, I'm just you."

She blinked, feeling the knot grow larger in her chest until suddenly it was just gone, leaving a horribly empty space where her heart should be. It was worse than if she'd been _Crucio_'d.

"Oh," was the only thing she could say, stepping away from Not-Harry and shakily seating herself at one of the bar stools.

"Why don't you tell me what's going on?" Harry asked, sitting beside her and leaning his elbow against the bar.

"Don't you already know?" she replied dully, not able to meet his eyes. She was not in the mood for mind games - especially from Figment of Her Imagination Harry Potter.

"Yes, but it's always better to talk about it," he said, scooting closer to place his hand over hers. "I've heard that bottled-up emotions cause terrible indigestion."

She moved uncomfortably away from his grasp, all too aware of his very solid hands in contact with her own. It felt too real, and she didn't quite know how to deal with it.

"Merlin, if my shrink could see me now," she muttered, moving behind the bar and pouring herself a glass.

"You know, once this whole war is over and we defeat Voldemort" - Hermione froze in terror before remembering the taboo didn't exist in her head - "I think that you would make a wonderful Minister for Magic."

"First of all, I see what you're doing," Hermione said, lifting the glass of whiskey to her lips. Her voice became muffled by the glass. "Second of all, I feel that my talents would be put to better use on the Wizengamot, or as Director of Muggle Affairs. I'm not cut out for politics, I think."

"I know," Harry said with a smug grin.

"I _know_ you know," she replied, irritated. "How do I get rid of you?"

"Well suicide is probably the most effective way, but if you're going for subtlety, then perhaps an invasive lobotomy."

Hermione groaned. She put her glass down loudly and was about to say something snarky when a thought hit her hard.

"Have I completely lost my mind?" she asked aloud, her heart constricting at the thought. "Has it been so long that...that I'm going crazy?"

She couldn't stop her eyes from wandering to the scar on her arm. Was it possible for _Crucio_ curses to build up and wear down one's mind over time? How would she survive if she lost her mind? Worse than that, what would happen to Harry and the others if she couldn't fight alongside them?

* * *

**At this point in quarantine, I think I might be so crazy that ****_my_**** mind will start inventing people like Hermione's. Ah, well, c'est la vie.**

**Kat**


	5. Chapter 5: Nocturne

**Hello, my friends. Recently was suffering a GI problem and had to stay in bed for two days...I figured it would be a good idea to update :) you all are so patient with me.**

* * *

**1997, Christmas Eve**

"Perce, look out - "

"_Ow!_"

"I told you to look out, didn't I?"

"Mum, can you control your lawless spawn, please? I'm doing Ministry work and it has to be in at midnight."

"On Christmas Eve, darling? That's positively criminal, to be working you this hard on holiday - "

"Yeah, Mum, your _lawless spawn_ is ruining the Christmas mood with all his homework on the kitchen table."

"Shut up, Fred, it's not _homework_ \- "

"Hush, Fred, you're not being helpful, darling - "

Hermione entered the disaster of a holiday, barely dodging a Jolly Jingle Jinx fired from her left - probably one of the twins - and almost dropping the pudding she'd brought for the occasion.

"Um, hello?" she asked, looking for someone who might be able to help her get settled in the madness.

"Hermione, dear!" The Weasley matriarch exclaimed, her smile radiant as she bustled toward the younger girl. "I'm _so_ sorry for the state of my home, but I have these wretched boys, you see, and they make a mess of every - _George, put that out this instant!_"

The twin in question guiltily extinguished a flaming Christmas ornament before bolting off to another room to cause more trouble.

"Sorry, darling, come in and come right this way," Mrs. Weasley continued apologetically, stepping aside to let Hermione fully in the door. Her thick winter coat was sprinkled with snow like fairy dust, and she shook herself to try to remove most of it before handing the pudding to an expectant Mrs. Weasley.

"This looks lovely!" the woman remarked, hurrying into the kitchen to put it down before returning to Hermione, who was shimmying her coat off and watching the rest of the family. Percy sat at the big Christmas table, the place setting pushed in front of him to make room for stacks of books and a scroll that was so long that its end had rolled off the tabletop and curled around the bottom of his chair like a soporific cat. Fred was charming tiny pieces of tinsel to flirt around Percy's ears, tickling them until the older brother smacked them violently away.

Hermione found Ron and Harry on the living room sofa, looking perplexedly at a colored Muggle puzzle block of some kind. Ron was currently shaking it upside down, as if something magical would happen if he beat it around.

"Dad got it for Mum for Christmas, but she can't figure out how to work it, and I thought you might - "

"Need some help?" Hermione asked, walking into their field of vision and sitting beside Ron on the couch, who had cut off his sentence and was grinning at her presence.

"Hey, Mione," Harry and Ron chirped in unison.

Ron pulled her into a hug first, his hair tickling her face. She smelled the familiar scent of mowed grass and couldn't help but remember the carolers she'd heard on the way over to the Burrow, singing _I'll Be Home for Christmas_; hearing her parents' favorite Christmas carol had immediately made her heart sink in her chest.

This was her first Christmas without her parents, without being home, and she felt the absence like a physical ailment, dragging like dead weight. Monica and Wendell Wilkins were celebrating Christmas with friends in Australia and Hermione was left behind to miss them. She could even picture the Christmas cards they'd send out with just the two of them, and as she held tight to Ron she could feel tears fill her eyes. Home was her friends, now. Maybe it had always partly been that way, but now they were all she had.

"Hi," Hermione breathed, and Ron must've felt the change in her mood because his arms gripped her tighter. Harry leaned in too, embracing the two of them and cocooning Hermione as she quietly sobbed.

"Has ickle-Ronniekins confessed his love and brought Hermione to tears?" she heard George - or was it Fred? - jeer from behind her and heard the rumble of Ron's voice through his chest as he responded.

"Oi, leave us alone. This is Hermione's first Christmas without her parents, you wanker."

"Why don't we go use your room?" Harry suggested quietly. "Give her a minute."

"C'mon, Mione," Ron murmured to her, maneuvering them into a standing position and moving them toward the stairs, allowing Hermione to take them slowly and hiding her face from view.

The last thing she wanted was to cause a scene at Christmas in front of Harry and the entire Weasley clan, but the feelings were just too raw and she was never any good at hiding things from her best friends.

They finally made it up the staircase and Harry closed the door of Ron's room behind him. Ron helped Hermione sit on his bed, awkwardly shoving dirty clothes off of it onto the floor. They sat in silence for several minutes as Hermione cried, and she was grateful for it. When her sharp grief subsided to a dull ache, and there were only small hiccups remaining, Harry finally spoke.

"I'm surprised you haven't given Ron a scathing review of the state of his room yet." His tone held a wry teasing, coaxing Hermione out of her grief as he sat on Ron's desk across from the bed. Classic Harry.

"Ronald, your room wouldn't be fit to house rats," Hermione replied, wiping at her eyes with her sleeve. "It wouldn't kill you to learn a basic Scourgify spell, for Merlin's sake."

"Ah, there she is," Harry said, crossing his arms and grinning.

"You sound like my mum," Ron said, scooting away and angling his body to give her some space. "But how are you feeling?"

She paused. "Sad. But like the kind where nothing can ever be good again."

She saw both of the boys exchange glances, and laughed internally at their awkwardness with female emotions. It's not like Harry grew up with sisters, and Ron was used to avoiding Ginny.

"I know we can't fix it," Harry eventually said. "But we'll be here. And you've always been our family, so we're not going anywhere."

"Yeah," Ron said, eloquently as always. "What Harry said."

"Thank you," Hermione said, her voice wavering as she backed away from tears again. What had she done to deserve these boys? She looked down at her lap to regain her composure when she glanced over and saw the Muggle toy still in Ron's hand, largely unsolved. A smile made its way back onto her face.

"Give it here," Hermione said, glad to hear a bit of her usual exasperation return to her voice. Ron looked confused until she swiped the Rubix cube from his hand, watching curiously as she manipulated the little colored blocks so they slowly became uniform on each face. When it was finally solved, she handed it back to him.

"How'd you do that?" Ron asked incredulously, giving the cube a shake and changing some of the pieces just to see what she'd done.

Hermione rolled her eyes but the smile never left her face. She met Harry's eyes and he gave her a soft smile back.

"Happy Christmas, Hermione," he said gently.

"Happy Christmas, Harry," she replied, feeling Ron's arm slide over her shoulder. Harry sat down next to her and joined the embrace. "Happy Christmas, Ron."

The three of them sat in silence for a while after that, watching the snow fall softly outside Ron's bedroom until Molly called them down for supper.

* * *

Christmas at the Malfoys had always been a big deal, a thoroughly extravagant and proper affair. Draco was used to heaps of food served unendingly, the high croon of a witch on an enchanted music player, and the many high-society guests who would attend and praise the Malfoys' generosity and their dedication to the cause of pureblood supremacy.

He had hated those gatherings. Usually he and Theo would sneak off and get drunk on butterbeer and whatever else they could coerce out of the house elf, but it was a distraction from being the perfect heir his parents wanted him to be. Their little carbon copy. He hated it.

He hated it even more this year. This year there was no huge party, no swarming crowds of guests pinching his cheeks and praising his grades. It was just him and his mother, sitting alone at their large dining room table. No music played. They had dismissed the staff for the evening. In their dark clothes, it felt less festive and more dirgeful.

Draco watched his mother cut her meat delicately and precisely at the head of the table. He sat to her left, his glass of wine and plate all but untouched and his heart heavy.

"Draco, darling, eat your food," Narcissa scolded, not looking up at him as she placed a bite in her mouth. She had never broken form, not once. Not during this meal, not in the weeks prior, not when they escorted his father and her husband off to Azkaban. Narcissa had never hesitated, never faltered. She carried on, and it was killing him.

Draco felt the bubble of resentment that had been building in his chest grow bigger until it threatened to pop. He turned his head to the window and watched the snow fall gently. It was peaceful...and wrong. And mocking him with its purity.

He was a Pureblood, his blood clean - perhaps too clean if one listened to incestuous family tree rumors - but he had never felt dirtier. Some days he thought he could still feel the pain from when he'd received the Dark Mark, still felt the nausea well up in his throat as he thanked the Dark Lord, still felt the cold porcelain against his palms and the hard bathroom floor under his knees as he threw up from the pain, from the knowledge of what he'd done and who he was.

"Draco," Narcissa said sharply, and Draco returned his attention to his plate, picking up his fork and taking a large bite. Narcissa continued to eat, her bites dainty like the good Pureblood wife she was. Her eyes were focused on the table in front of her, not moving even as Draco grew more and more agitated.

He slammed his fork on the table, startling Narcissa, who finally lifted her eyes to Draco's face, although he suddenly wished she hadn't. Her glare could kill plants, he was certain.

"_Draco_," she hissed.

"Why aren't you upset about Father?" he demanded, unable to hide the questions that had been fermenting in his mind for weeks. "Why aren't we begging the Dark Lord to free him? Why do you seem so damn _okay_ that your husband is in prison for perhaps the rest of his life? And all because we serve a selfish - "

"DRACO," Narcissa shouted, standing up in her chair and smacking both hands onto the tabletop forcefully. "Do not finish that sentence. How dare you stand here and accuse me of not loving your father?"

"Mother, we're on our own. It's just you and me now and I feel like you don't even care."

"Draco, you're overreacting. We'll all be reunited soon, but for now we will obey the Dark Lord like we swore to do - "

"How can you _say_ that?"

"So you are going to sit down and finish your meal, and I'll have the elf come around with your schoolbooks to stay sharp over the holidays - "

_"What if it was me?"_ Draco bellowed, shoving his plate forward until it crashed into an antique candle holder, which wobbled precariously before righting again. His chest heaved as his greatest fear left his mouth.

"What if it was me?" he asked again, the rage barely suppressed in his voice although he brought his tone down so as not to spook the house elves. "What if I had been taken instead of Father? Would you still be sitting in this house, eating this food as I rotted in some prison cell on the whim of the Dark Lord?"

Narcissa was deathly quiet.

"Are you just going to watch as I try to do the one task I've been given but can't seem to accomplish? Do you not care that we're losing everything, and that in a couple months I might lose…" he swallowed hard and continued, "I might lose the only piece of me that wasn't the Dark Lord's? He's taken my family, my friends, my school, my loyalty, and...and soon the only shred of morality I have left."

"Morality is for the weak-minded, Draco," Narcissa said sharply. "Power is for the strong."

"That's all you have to say?" he replied, his voice turning breathy at the end of his question, as though he had no more energy to fight her. His mother did not respond, and so Draco backed away from the table, not bothering to push in his chair or finish his meal. Narcissa did not stop him as he stalked toward the staircase.

"Happy Christmas, Mother," he said, his voice bitter and his heart so, so cold.

* * *

**2001**

Hermione hadn't moved from her seat in several minutes. Her mind was spinning, searching for the fractures in itself. She felt herself spiraling as memories of Bellatrix's torture returned. Her arm hurt, the magical scar barely covered by all the spells and enchantments she'd put on it. It had taken all the Healers she knew to stop it from bleeding, and to this day it continued to look angry, as though the scab might burst open if she was too rough with it.

Her breath came faster, and Harry - Figment Harry - was there in a heartbeat, his hand pressing her head into his chest as she felt the panic attack take hold.

He felt solid enough, and she focused closely on that as her world narrowed to only her harsh breath and the pressure in her brain.

"You're okay," he said, and she felt the rumble in his chest, which only made her want to sob because it had been so long since she'd been held by him like that. "You're okay."

Hermione cried that way in his arms for so long that when the tears finally dried up, she had a kink in her neck and felt completely emotionally drained. It was the first time she'd cried, truly cried, since the war. All these emotions and anxieties had been bottled and shoved away since she left Harry, and now it was like trying to hold back a dam.

Probably another sign that her mind was lost.

When she could finally speak again, it was like she couldn't stop. "Harry, I don't know what to do without you. I feel so lost. I have no one for the first time in my life and it's terrifying and I have no idea if you're even coming back. I don't know if anyone else is even alive. I'm so scared of getting caught, of being found out, and I'm not used to waiting. I had all the answers...I _always_ had all the answers but now it's like I don't even know what the questions are. I'm weak..I'm weak, and I've never been weak but I feel bloody _helpless_."

Harry didn't speak. She didn't know if she expected him to.

"Why are you even here?" she asked more quietly. "Why did my mind create you? Am I...am I more damaged than I thought?" She paused, thinking of all her other friends. "Why don't I see Ron? Or Dumbledore? Or Lupin? Or Luna?"

"Think about it," he said, stroking a hand down her head. "You have the answers."

Then he had disappeared, as quick as he'd appeared minutes earlier, and Hermione was left alone in the bar with her thoughts and the creeping feeling that she truly was going insane.

* * *

Draco knew he had to be careful. Buying the loyalty of "allies" of the Dark Lord who did not bear the Dark Mark was only as good as the amount of Galleons exchanged and carefully concealed threats. This is exactly what he made sure to take care of as he passed off a small sack of gold coins and a smooth rock to Ismelda Murk.

Ismelda was a former Hogwarts student seven years his senior. Her life was a shred of what it had been. She'd grown up in a neglectful pureblood family, always watching from the sidelines as her parents showered her older sister with attention. After abusing several animals and torturing a few students during her years at Hogwarts, she was finally expelled after sixth year and disappeared after her public disowning. When Voldemort had taken over London, she'd come out of hiding and pledged her allegiance, most likely desperate to belong somewhere. She easily slipped into the role of informant, her unassuming figure helpful as she gleaned information. Draco was the only Death Eater he knew who used her, but she'd given good information so far. It was his only shot.

"Draco," she said in greeting, her smile a little too enthusiastic. Inwardly, the Malfoy heir cringed. "You wanted to see me?"

"I have business for you," he said gruffly, attempting to shut off all his emotion to dissuade her own. "I need you to do something for me."

"If it's anything like what you've had me do before, I'm in," she replied, her eyes skating up and down his figure suggestively before settling back on his face. She'd shorn her black hair short in the months since he'd seen her, so the tips barely brushed her collarbone and emphasized the rigid structure of her face. She'd been pretty once. Now she just looked haggard and tired, like everyone else.

"Business," Draco repeated, his voice almost gravelly from how stone-cold his tone was. In a moment of weakness months ago he'd gotten lost in her vulnerability, drawn in by her helpless distraction. She'd just been turned down as a Death Eater, and he'd just watched the Dark Lord slay several classmates whose names he still remembered. That night started at a pub table and ended in a pub bathroom, satisfying his loneliness for a blessed minute. He kept her around for a month or two after that, but even she couldn't banish his demons.

"I need information," he continued. "30 galleons for you to find out everything you can about a pureblood named Hestia Jones. Friends, living relatives, aliases, anything you got. She was a member of the Order of the Phoenix."

Ismelda cocked her head. "Member of the Order? That was disbanded years ago. Why would you - "

"I'm not paying you to ask questions," Draco said coldly, handing her the bag of coins, making sure to loudly jangle them.

"Fine, fine," Ismelda mumbled sullenly, taking the bag. "Where should I meet you when I have the information? Maybe I could come by your apartment, you know, like we used to - "

"No," Draco said flatly. "Just leave a smooth pebble in my letterbox by the front door, and I'll find you."

"But why?" she said, looking urgently up at him. Her green eyes were wide and her lips were parted, and he was once again reminded why he'd made that bad decision...and all the decisions after. "Can't we just talk, I mean? It's been so long, and I miss - "

"Just leave me the pebble when you have the information," Draco replied, turning away and beginning to walk back toward his street. Before she could interject again, he called over his shoulder, "And if I find out that anyone knows about our little talk today…" A pause for effect. "Well, I'm sure you can imagine."

Satisfied with the interaction, Draco shoved his hands in his pocket and walked home, feeling the smooth of his wand. He'd find out who this Hestia Jones was, and maybe he'd stumble across who'd been brave - or stupid - enough to use her as a cover.

* * *

**You all know the drill. Much love x**

**Kat**


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